Under the Scotsman's Kilt
by garbagedog
Summary: After a long night of drinking with Jane in Teufort, Tavish drags himself back to the wrong base.


Tavish bid farewell to Jane by the curb of Teufort's only bar. He hurried away before the BLU Sniper, Jane's ride, pulled up to witness them. He suspected that both teams knew about their friendship, but it was habit to keep the secret by now.

A mile into his walk back to base, however, Tavish began to regret that he didn't break that habit and go with Jane for once. The night was brisk and cool, with a satisfying breeze around his privates, but-he would admit this only to himself-he may have had more than his share that night at the Teufort pub, thanks to a hasty competition with Jane that had turned into a matter of pride, and then into a nearly suicidal need to triumph. Tavish would say on his deathbed that he had won with more drinks, although he knew in the deepest part of him that he had lost count halfway through.

Walking brought all of his intoxication to the surface. The entire world swayed like a ship's deck, pitching him to and fro. He followed unmarked paths through the desert scrub with more muscle memory than actual cognition. Often, he tripped on rocks and gravel that eluded his single bleary eye, and frequently tripped and sprawled in the sand. Each fall worsened the unwelcome grittiness in the crack of his arse. He doggedly dragged himself back to his feet every time, berating himself for allowing anything but his beloved homebrewed scrumpy to best him. His stomach rebelled and he quashed the nausea with sheer discipline. As Jane would say, he would prevail. He would take victory by the throat and show it that he was the man.

He grit his teeth and soldiered on home to the RED base.

* * *

"Whoah," cackled the BLU Scout, "check it out!"

The Scout's early morning run had led to him to something unexpected. He gathered up everyone at breakfast and led them outside to gawk at the sight: the RED Demoman lay in a hill of sand, one arm extended, the other crumpled under him, his kilt rumpled halfway up his askew thighs. He looked like the classic picture of desert dehydration, although they all knew that, in fact, an excess of liquid was responsible for their enemy's woes.

"He musta got lost on his way back to the RED base from town!" The Scout doubled over, slapping his knee. "What an idiot! No wonder Soldier didn't get up to run with me—he's prob'ly hung over!"

The BLU Medic adjusted his glasses thoughtfully. "I could use a fresh body," he said, looking to the BLU Heavy with an unspoken request. The Heavy cracked his knuckles and started towards the prone man.

"Hey, wait," the Scout managed to say through tears of laughter, "I didn't mean for nothing creepy to happen!"

The Engineer nodded. "We gotta be fair," he said. "We're off the clock, poor guy's helpless, and he's our Soldier's best friend." The Pyro's head bobbled up and down with an emphatic, affirmative noise.

"I've been out drinking with the pair of them before," the Sniper chimed in. "RED Demo's a decent bloke."

The Medic's shoulders fell with disappointment. "Very well. But he cannot stay here. The Administrator will have our heads, and I do not want to handle the paperwork to get them reattached."

The BLU Demoman joined them, and nearly dropped his morning drink when he saw the cause of the commotion. "Look at that tartan," he said, squinting his eye. "S'exactly like the Degroot—"

The Engineer cut him off with a firm pat on the arm. "Don't think about it too much, son. All right: let's load him up on a wagon or somethin' and put him back by their door. They'll find him before the end of ceasefire."

The Demoman shook his head. "I need a drink," he said. They let him go without a single remark about the irony.

"If I may," spoke the Spy, who had been standing to the side during the debate, "we should give him a reminder of what happened, so that he might learn a lesson from this."

"I said I didn't mean for nothing creepy to happen," the Scout repeated, more coldly this time.

The Spy held up his hands. "An innocent prank," he said. "Allow me."

No one stopped him, and so the Spy moved over to their unconscious enemy. He flipped the RED Demoman on to his side, studied him for a moment with a tilted head, and then withdrew something from the pocket of his slacks.

The Sniper mumbled, "I knew you were stealing those. Bastard."

Spy pushed the kilt up over Demoman's hips. "Hm. I suppose it is true what they don't wear beneath the kilt." A wave of groans and cries of protest resounded from the other men, who either looked away in disgust or shook their heads in disapproval as Spy carried out his scheme.

"Harmless," the Spy said, replacing the Demoman's kilt and standing with a mischievous smirk.

The Scout grimaced. "You're sick."

"Ah, but maybe he will have more self control in the future." The Spy gestured back to the Demoman's body. "You are welcome to remove it."

"I use those for trail markers," the Sniper complained, but he sighed in resignation.

"As I said," the Spy snickered, "go ahead and take it off of him yourself, if you must."

The Scout mimed gagging and ran off, yelling something about a wheelbarrow. When he returned, the Spy had evaporated, but the rest of the team worked together to pile the enemy Demoman into it. They found themselves taking excessive care with his helpless body. The Medic made sure Demoman lay on his side to keep his airway clear of any potential vomit, and they all marched him across the bridge together and deposited him in the shade of the RED base's door.

"D'you think we should tell Soldier?" the Engineer wondered, as they walked back.

"He'll find out," said the Sniper. "That's the sort of thing you'd mention over a drink."

* * *

The morning sun reflected off the water in the moat and glared in Tavish's eye, rousing him. He groaned, reaching towards the unwelcoming, searing light, and felt a structure wobble beneath him. As best he could tell, he was in some kind of bucket. His legs hung over either side, and his head rested on a smooth ledge. When he tried to turn himself over, the bucket lost its balance and fell, spilling him on to the pavement.

The burn of gravel on his elbow and shoulder was nothing compared to the throbbing in his head, and, curiously, his prick. He winced, and cast his mind back to the previous night. Drinks with Jane, followed by a terrifying blank patch, were all that he could recall. What sort of hellish venereal disease had he contracted from the girls in town? His cock felt compressed, somehow, and too hot.

He risked opening his eye. The wooden outer walls of RED's base loomed over him. He had seen them from this perspective many times, usually when his head had blown clear from his shoulders and he retained his dying vision long enough to take in the scenery. The experience while alive, and alone, was shockingly novel.

Tavish took in a long, measured breath and turned his attention back to his privates. He looked from side to side, confirming that no one was nearby, before he clenched his jaw and pulled his kilt away from his groin.

He gawked at what he found. No warts, no bumps, no sores—just a lovely blue ribbon, tied as nice as you please in a neat little bow about the base of his cock. A blue ribbon? It could only mean...

Tavish finally exhaled. "Lad, I don't know where you've been," he chuckled, "but I see you won first prize."


End file.
